


500,000 Kilowatts of Stardust

by TLara (larissabernstein)



Category: Singin' in the Rain (1952), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Community: intoabar, Crossover, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, oh pairing I dub thee Kirkwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2661479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/TLara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Into a Bar Ficathon 2014.</p><p>Prompt: James T. Kirk goes into a bar and meets... Don Lockwood!</p>
            </blockquote>





	500,000 Kilowatts of Stardust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eimeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eimeo/gifts).



> This fic is set before the events of “Singin’ in the Rain”, i.e. before Don met Kathy. Implied pre-slash pairings: Kirk/Spock, Don/Cosmo.
> 
> There are a few US slang expressions from the 1920s, which I explain in the end notes; for your convenience the "translation" is also coded to appear if you hover your mouse over the word/phrase.

This is not the transporter room of _Wrigley’s Welcome Lounge & Bar_, this much is immediately clear to him when Kirk takes in his dimly lit surroundings. Cheap wooden planks are under his boots instead of the expected illuminated white transporter pad. There is a massive mahogany-coloured bar, clad in darkness, on one side of the room, shelves with dusty bottles and glasses lining the wall above and on both sides of a large dirty mirror. Several small tables with a couple of plain chairs are set up in the front. A battered upright piano claims half of the wall perpendicular to the bar.

A Terran old-style saloon of sorts, if it weren’t for the absence of patrons and staff. And the fact that the room is remarkably incomplete, being rather a corner with the walls abruptly cut off and leading nowhere.

Kirk feels his temples throbbing with the all too familiar onset of a headache. Just great. Half a bar is surely not where he’d planned to unwind tonight, to temporarily shake off the weight of being responsible for over 400 people, and even entertain a well-deserved inebriation away from the eyes of his crew. But then, how fitting for a shore leave that has been doomed from the start, with Bones having plans of his own - Kirk is sure they will involve a certain Yeoman Barrows - and Spock rebuffing all his invitations to tag along with only faintly concealed disdain for Human concepts of rest and recreation. _And don’t we all know it will be only half the fun without the hobgoblin!_ Bones had joked and clapped Kirk on the shoulder.

Kirk allows himself an unobserved sigh and flips open his communicator. Pent up frustration gives way to concern, however, when no one so much as answers his signal. Greeted only by static, Kirk can’t ignore the nagging feeling that something’s really wrong. This is not _Wrigley’s Welcome Lounge & Bar_, but quite probably this is not even Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet. And judging from the antique looking floodlights that he can barely make out in the dark space right above the fake saloon, this might not even be the year 2267.

Any further musings are cut short by a sudden staccato of sounds that seem to come from somewhere behind the saloon. It sounds suspiciously like someone’s clapping their hands.

A sense of caution and alert, acquired in years of command training and in the course of the strangest missions, takes over and drowns out the last remnants of frustration and exhaustion. On soft feet, he sneaks past the piano and along the short wall, keeping his body close to the scenery. The wall feels thin and rickety under his hands, and he takes great care not to apply too much pressure and topple everything. The sounds have morphed into a sort of rhythm now, and if he listens closely, he can even catch soft humming. Cautiously he peeks around the corner where the saloon ends and the reality of a deserted film studio at night begins.

There is a man dancing, only five metres away, in the elliptical shape the light cone of an old tripod spotlight paints for him on the floor, sharply demarcating his improvised dance floor from the rest of the dark studio. The dark-haired figure is not aware of his silent watcher. Turning, jumping, and pivoting on his toes in intricate figures, he seems lost in thought. He kicks up his heels, taps a rhythm with his shoes. His beige, high-waisted trousers cling tightly to firm and shapely buttocks, while his white shirt, gleaming like a beacon, shows off strong arms under rolled-up sleeves and defined pectorals framed by suspenders. He claps his hands again, lets his feet join them as instruments of percussion. With outstretched arms he pirouettes sideways along the shape of the light. Kirk can’t hear any music apart from the sounds the man produces with hands and feet, and the mere hint of a hummed tune, but as he keeps watching, he starts to feel it. The song might only be in the man’s head, accompanying his routine in the same intimate way that his shadow shares and amplifies the dance moves, but its beauty and fire is contagious. Lust for life and melancholy seem to compete against each other in his dance. There is a strange liquid grace about the lone dancer, an entrancing combination of muscular strength and artistic feeling, athletic body control paired with passionate expressivity.

It is still a conscious decision, or this Kirk tells himself at least, to come out of his hiding place, once the dance has come to an end, and applaud the man. To get out of his current displaced state, Kirk needs some clues, after all, about the where and when of this old-fashioned film studio.

The dancer looks up at him, and if he’s startled, it is only for a second. He gets up from where he dropped to his knees at the end of the routine, and walks directly towards Kirk. Just the tiniest bit breathless, he nods at him.

“Hey, you must be the Canadian stunt guy they raved about all day. Said you’d worked with Knoles. Thought you wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow afternoon. Couldn’t wait to get a whiff of our studio air, hm? And trying on your costume, it seems.”

Up close the man’s presence is even more impressive and enchanting. He is much more than just handsome; his eyes sparkle with a special kind of energy, of restless vitality. Kirk can imagine him breaking into song and dance at any given moment in life - and it would not be a ridiculous or crazy sight, but the only behaviour befitting the man. “There’s much to appreciate in an empty studio at night,” Kirk opts for a safe response. “I apologise for disturbing you, but this routine was quite something, Mr… ?”

The man gives him an assessing once-over, and Kirk is sure he’s already put his foot into his mouth, but the inspection is followed by a polite smile. “Don Lockwood. Call me Don, please. And thanks, I was quite the hoofer before I came to Hollywood. Still miss the good old days. I resort to dance and music whenever I need them; they help me stay sane. And you are…?”

“Jim. Maybe you can tell me a bit more about, uh, the studio? Wouldn’t want to be thrown in at the deep end.”

Don rolls his shoulders and nods.

“Sure, just let me finish up here. First rule: Never get into the technicians’ hair; they rule the place. By the way, that’s some funny glad rags you got there,” Don chuckles and shakes his head, and then his hand is already on Kirk’s uniform sleeve, feeling up his command gold. “Is this supposed to be a uniform, one of those European things? Poor quality. One rough and tumble and it will hang in tatters on you. Not that the ladies in the theatre will mind, though. Or the guys. But what’s Roscoe gonna do - give you a new costume for every take you need to repeat?”

Now there’s some truth to this assessment, Kirk has to concede and swallows his grin, as a chain of memories of past fights comes unbiddenly to his mind, torn collars and ripped sleeves flashing by, the one with the split pants seat when he picked up a dropped stylus on the bridge definitely not among his most glorious “stunts”. He settles for an answering chuckle and simpler territory.

“The guys?”

Don doesn’t even blink; his hand on Kirk’s sleeve is warm and assuring. “Everyone,” Don says, “loves a roughed-up guy with eyes like that on the silver screen. Good mix of bravado and pretty. You’ll make it to leading man soon. Not to forget,” he lowers his voice, “these are modern times, this is Hollywood. It’s about time people get over some things.” He winks at him conspiratorially.

Kirk has played this game often enough to recognise when someone else is turning on the charm at him. But there is an astonishing lack of agenda in the other man’s sparkling eyes; for an actor, the warm smile is incredibly sincere. There is almost something vulnerable in it. Kirk can’t help wondering if there is more behind this actor’s decision to stay behind in the empty studio and dance away whatever has been burdening him. For a moment, he sees himself, standing in the dark and empty observatory room, watching stars streak by and attempting to get rid of the void inside him, placating an unhealthy longing with cosmic beauty.

Don, it seems, is lost in similar musings, reading Kirk’s face, before he swallows once and finds his voice again.

“What do you say? Shall we hit one of these drums where they sell disgusting coffin varnish, or can I invite you to my own private stash?”

The urge to ask and thereby arouse suspicion, is great. And if there ever was a moment Kirk wished he could actually empathise with his first officer about the plight of Human slang expressions, now is definitely the time for a first-hand experience.

“Lead the way,” Kirk says, and he sincerely hopes the “private stash” will turn out to be a good drink and some explanations.

Turning off the last few lights in this part of the studio is a matter of minutes, before Don leads him indeed - to his car, that is. Two hours later Kirk finds himself in Mr Lockwood’s living-room nursing his third gin. Planet (Terra) and year (1926) are not a question mark anymore. Also, he is sure that he has compromised his assumed identity to a certain extent. Working in the film industry (albeit a Canadian one) and not instantly recognising Don Lockwood, leading man of Monumental Pictures and a movie star not only ruling the screen, but omnipresent in magazines and papers everywhere, is more than a gaffe. Strangely, Don does not seem to be too shocked or affronted by this outrage. But then, he has spent the larger part of this evening talking about his best friend, and he is still buzzing with energy.

“We’ve always been together in this, you see? Cosmo’s been my closest friend from my earliest childhood days. We sneaked into the movies together, stole candies together, earned our first dough together. And music’s always been part of this life. Now that I’m touted as the big star I feel guilty. He deserves recognition, too.”

Don fills up his glass again. Kirk is content to let his voice wash over him - he’d rather listen and glean useful information than make up a period-true story himself - and notices the dimples on Don’s face.

“Oh, he’s definitely my other half. I am not complete without him. He’s more than a friend and colleague to me; he’s like a brother, always urging me on, bringing out the best in me. It’s a magical connection.” Don’s dark-brown eyes shimmer wistfully. “Do you understand what I mean? There are these people in one’s life that are just given to you by fate. But making yourself heard and tell them how important they are to you is just hard, especially if they tend to think not high enough of themselves. While they are simply perfect.”

Kirk does understand. “Yes, and we can just try our best to do them justice. No one said it would be easy to pierce their armour.” His throat feels dry and rough all of a sudden; a sip of gin does little to change this.

“You sound like you’ve been in a similar situation, Jim.” A comforting hand brushes his arm again, but it is disputable if this is just another examination of his “costume”.

Kirk catches himself staring at the small half-moon scar on Don’s cheek, just a kiss away from the corner of his mouth. _A kiss away?_ Did he really just think that?

“Cash or check?” Don asks.

“I thought I was invited.” It is the safe answer if you walk on shaky linguistic ground.

Or not, Kirk realises, as Don’s smile gets impossibly brighter and closes the distance to Kirk’s mouth. The kiss is too good, however, to second-guess any decisions, really. He is not in any immediate danger, nor has he reason to assume that his ship is in any predicament. As long as he does not mess up the timeline, he should be fine, yes? Of course, it must be the gin talking in his mind, when the captain of the Enterprise is seriously considering to let this progress any further. He should not waste time exploring this time and space, but find a way to return to his own. There’s this thing Don does with his tongue, however, and then there are his strong hands on Kirk’s backside, and something hungry inside his brain - it is his brain, honestly - pushes away any pangs of conscience or considerations of duty. He deserves this, for God’s sake! A window of comfort and carefreeness, freeing him of responsibilities. Fulfilment instead of longing. No strings attached, no friendships and professional relationships damaged.

There are hands wandering all over his body, lips exploring his jawline and mapping the curve of his neck. Kirk feels restless; he wants to touch, to hold, to consume what is offered so willingly. With shaking hands he pushes away the suspenders and undos the buttons on Don’s shirt, cursing under his breath - seriously, there’s a good reason that buttons have fallen out of favour in the last few centuries. Too slow, Kirk thinks, everything is going too slow, because the need has become overwhelming by now. Finally the shirt is gone, and he busies himself with the soft tweed of Don’s trousers - more buttons! - when he hears a ripping sound that might have come from his uniform shirt that Don tried to simultaneously pull over his head.

“Told you so,” Don breaths.

But something else than fabric has given way, too - the last vestige of reason. It is only natural - _no, don’t call it logical, just don’t_ \- and nature is a force of its own. A blur of hands and bodies, tearing off more offending garments, kisses and moans, sudden contact with a thick carpet. The details are a bit hazy, a fact Kirk will bemoan and welcome in equal parts tomorrow. There’s a moment of play-wrestling when Don _does_ break into song and belts out “But Tonight You Belong To Me”, which should be just a tiny bit awkward, because, seriously, no one has ever serenaded Kirk, and definitely not when they were pinned under him, but instead it is perfect - despite or due to the ensuing laughter being exactly the kind of leverage Don needs to turn them over and straddle Kirk’s chest. What burns itself into his memory, in any case, is the complete abandon with which they satisfy their needs this night.

It is to the insistent beeping of his communicator that Kirk wakes up. The grey light of dawn filters into the room, casts faint shadows on an unfamiliar but surprisingly comfortable carpet in a stranger’s living room, and highlights the sleeping figure next to him. Or rather half under, half on top of him. It takes Kirk only a moment to go into captain mode and retrieve the noisy equipment from his discarded pants. He will complain about the kink in his left shoulder later which he almost dislocates in order to reach out to and silence the device far above his head without disentangling himself from the limbs of the other man and the large plaid they snatched off the couch in the middle of the night.

Disentangling is a task of its own that requires pronouncedly more time and finesse. It is only when Kirk has managed to gather and put on most of his clothes in absolute silence that he releases a breath he has not been aware of holding. Obviously, his trusted crew - or rather his trusted first officer - have discovered the transporter mishap and found a way to get him back. His short window of respite is coming to an end, but there is no feeling of guilt or regret. He digs out his second boot from under the pillows on the couch and turns around to cast a last glance at his one-night lover - who is awake and looks right back at him.

“Level with me,” says Don and gives a hearty yawn, “you’re not our new stunt guy, hm?”

There is neither accusation nor anger in his words. Kirk picks at his uniform shirt, pushing the not so small tear in the fabric this way and that way, before he finally gives up on trying to restore any sartorial decorum. Don is still looking at him, watching him fiddle with his unexpected prop, with this assessing look in his eyes, but a reassuring smile on his lips. The urge to share the truth is great, because this man clearly deserves no less, but there is too much at stake. A half-truth will have to do.

“No, I’m not. Though I do my own stunts,” Kirk laughs uneasily. “In fact, I am-“

“You’re very much like me,” Don cuts him off. “No matter the details. - Promise me you’ll talk to him?”

Kirk feels his head nod for him in reply.

“Good. I’ll do the same. There’s no use in pining for the next 300 years.”

There’s no goodbye, but a look of understanding and encouragement. And the merry humming of a catchy tune that follows Kirk out the door and into the deserted streets of Beverly Hills in the early morning. He hasn’t felt that well-rested in ages. If he could, he would start dancing in the streets, and Kirk chuckles at the silly idea; for now, however, he will settle for finding an unobserved place where he can whip out his communicator without causing a major disturbance of the timeline and let himself be taken home by Spock.

**Author's Note:**

> Harry (Harley) Knoles (1880-1936) was a British film director who was responsible for one of the best productions in early Canadian film industry: “The Great Shadow” (1920).
> 
> “But Tonight You Belong To Me”: written in 1926 by lyricist Billy Rose and composer Lee David, first recorded by Irving Kaufmann in 1926; [you can listen to it on YouTube](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=usrACzwJToM).
> 
> Some US slang expressions from the 1920s:
> 
> Hoofer = dancer  
> Glad rags = fashionable or formal clothing (used ironically here)  
> Drum = also called speakeasy, a bar/club where illegal alcohol was sold  
> Coffin varnish = cheap bootleg liquor, often poisonous  
> Dough = money  
> Cash or check? = Kiss now or later?  
> Level with me = Be honest with me
> 
> I'd like to say my heartfelt thanks to the organisers of Into a Bar, first of all for making this challenge happen, and moreover for extending the deadline!!  
> It was a joy to return to fannish writing. <3
> 
> I gift this work to my dear friend eimeo. Happy birthday!


End file.
